


From Rage to Serenity (With All the Points in Between)

by sky_reid



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anger, Angst, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Morning Sex, Paralysis, Permanent Injury, Sexual Content, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Rage</i> – it's <i>Erik's</i> food, <i>Erik's</i> water, <i>Erik's</i> air; it's not what he intended for Charles. <i>Between</i> – it's hope, a dream, a prayer; it's all the hard work they've put into this. <i>Serenity</i> – it's the goal, the direction, the summit; it's <i>them</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Rage to Serenity (With All the Points in Between)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eruannalle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruannalle/gifts).



> I said I'd stop with all the gifting. Clearly, not an ounce of self control in me. And this is for you, Mims, because you're awesome and I love you to death and I never would've discovered the perfection that is XMFC and Charles/Erik had I not had you.
> 
> Rated explicit just to be on the safe side (graphic depiction of injury, living with a permanent injury and sexual situations).
> 
> I feel the need to point out that this is a story that aims for _realism_ , which is to say, you will find _realistic_ depictions of living with paralysis, so if that bothers you, you know where the back button on your browser is. You've been warned.
> 
> A few things for those sticking with me:
> 
> a) Based on the movie, I'm locating the injury as being in the lumbar section of the spine which means that Charles has sensation down to his pelvic bone and no lower (he can't feel his legs or move them).
> 
> b) In accordance with this, sacral nerves are affected as well which means that for all intents and purposes, he's impotent (yes, sorry). Erection is possible, but unreliable, depends solely on physical sensations and doesn't last; ejaculation is not possible.
> 
> c) [A catheter](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catheter) is, as I am sure most of you know, a medical device for drainage of bodily fluids. It usually looks something like [this](http://www.malecare.com/nr551580.jpg).
> 
> d) [An enema](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enema) is a medical device used as a bowel stimulant. You _don't_ want me to go into details.
> 
> e) Phantom or ghost pains are perceived pains in a previously injured area (in this case, lower back).
> 
> Okay, that should be it xD Extensive research notwithstanding, there is a strong possibility that I have failed at being realistic since I myself do not suffer from spinal cord injury, nor do I know someone who does. If you catch something that's off... Well, roll with it, I say. I apologize for the slip-up.
> 
> A cookie for everyone who catches the 30 Seconds to Mars reference. Two if you also catch the _Supernatural_ reference.
> 
> 20k words, no beta, 4 in the morning, apologies for any mistakes.
> 
> Last but not the least, o hai new fandom, nice to meet you :D I'll shut up now xD

 

_From Rage to Serenity (With All the Points in Between)_

 

~*~

_Rage_

~*~

 

He realizes the mistake before Charles even hits the sand. He doesn't need to hear Charles' cry of pain or the shocked gasps from the people around him, doesn't need to see Charles' face twisted into a grimace or the aghast expressions of the others; he knows. He _felt_ it the moment the bullet he had so carelessly deflected hit Charles' ridiculous blue-and-yellow suit, Charles' warm, sweaty skin, Charles' lean muscles, Charles' _spine_. The bullet kept going as the vertebra cracked (and he must have sent the darn piece of metal flying a lot faster than he'd intended to – it shouldn't have been so fast, shouldn't have had so much energy), then slowed, encased in something a lot softer, more like gelatine, like really thick pudding, something that absorbed most of the energy. _That_ was when it dawned on him. Not long after, the fleeting thought of _What was I thinking_ flashes before his eyes. He turns around, sees Charles falling, one of his arms jerking to the front of his body, to cushion the fall, the other one twisted behind him, hand pressed to his lower back. To Erik, it looks like a slow-motion video recording, every second lasting like it's a minute, even the slightest movement of Charles' body clearly visible to Erik. And Erik can do nothing but stare.

 

The spell is broken when Charles falls. Erik runs to him, kneels behind him and pulls the bullet out, turns Charles around to look at his face without thinking. He lets go of the missiles and they explode in mid-air, but he hardly cares about that now, about the possible war, or about Shaw's dead body somewhere behind him, about anything but the warm weight in his arms, really. Charles groans in pain and frowns up at him.

 

“You did this,” he says, a simple statement, not even accusing, just vocalizing the facts, but it makes Erik's blood boil. _You did this, you did this, you did this_. No, he didn't, he refuses to believe he did, no. It was _Moira_ who was holding the gun, firing, it's her fault, he decides. She's wearing dog tags, he knows, he can feel them vibrating, so he lifts his hand and the thin metal chains squeeze around her throat.

 

He's not sure if Charles does it on purpose, or if he's just too overwhelmed with pain to control himself, but the feelings that course through him are not his, he knows that much. There's fear, and anger, and satisfaction (where did that come from?), but above it all, is _pain_ . Pain strong enough for _Erik_ 's eyes to close. And then there's just a slight twinge of panic. Erik looks down, releasing Moira. Charles' eyes are trained steadily on him, wide and pleading. For what, he's not sure. His hand drops from the air and falls to Charles' stomach. There's a loose thread poking about half an inch out of one of the seams on the front of Charles' suit (and what an odd thing to notice right now, but he can't seem to stop staring at it).

 

“Erik, I...” Charles starts, but then stops, frowns harder. “I don't think I can feel my legs,” he whispers, sounding... _awed_. And then his frown smooths out, his lower lip trembles and his eyes give away much more panic. “I can't,” he says weakly, “I really can't.”

 

No, of course he can't, Erik realizes, not when the bullet only stopped when it was inside Charles' _spinal cord_ . Erik feels panic settle in his own stomach, panic that Charles won't walk again, worse yet, that he will blame Erik for it; _you did this_ echoes through his head.

 

He's dimly aware of somebody yelling into the jet's radio, calling for help. He thinks he recognizes Moira's voice and the spark of panic ignites a fire of anger in him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid of Moira to shoot at him with _metal_ bullets (what was she thinking?), stupid of him to deflect them without paying attention (what was wrong with him!?), stupid of Charles to try to stop him (why does he have to be so stubbornly good-natured?), it was all stupid, it was all a mistake. A mistake that may cost his friend the ability to walk. And he can't do anything about it right now. His own guilt and helplessness, everybody else's frantic and useless running around, Charles' pain still evident in his face, it all fuels his rage, and he squeezes his hand around Charles shoulder until Charles grunts in discomfort. He looks down to apologize, but all he sees is a fog of fury and through it Charles' piercingly blue eyes, shining with... _are those tears?_ , and then everything goes white and hot and all he knows is anger.

 

The submarine and the jet not far off on the beach fall apart into a million pieces with deafening noise, metal shrapnel flying every which way.

 

*

 

It's been 16 hours (approaching 17 now) since Charles was rushed through the double doors that say _Operating Rooms_ in bold red letters. The kids (and why does calling them that make Erik's throat close up, why does he suddenly feel like he hurt one of their parents, why the hell does he feel like comforting them the way a mother would?) are sitting obediently in the waiting area, but Erik can't be still. He paces the corridor scowling at anything in a white coat that moves without approaching him. He thinks he hears Raven explaining to one of the nurses that no, he's not some psychopathic murderer, he's just very concerned; he doesn't care. He just wants to know what's going on, if Charles is all right, if he'll recover. He knows he shouldn't bring his hopes up, not with what happened, but he can't help the silent prayer for everything to turn out better than he expects (it's funny, he's never been religious before, and he's not religious now, he's not praying to _God_ , he's just... covering all bases).The fact that no one has told them anything beyond Charles needing an emergency surgery is making him twitchy. He can feel the metal of the pipes in the walls rattling, humming from his power, he notices doctors complaining about their stethoscopes not working, and a few times some medical instruments he doesn't recognize levitate around him before he notices it's happening. Several times he has to stop pacing, close his eyes and take deep breaths before he turns the whole building to ruins. It doesn't help him calm down that whenever his eyelids fall shut, he sees Charles' startlingly blue eyes welling up with tears.

 

*

 

Erik isn't there when Charles wakes up, and he's not there when Raven tells him. He caught one glimpse of Charles' broken body wrapped in light blue sheets and felt sick; he turned on his heel and left. He's not sure why he's going back now, he knows the sight can't be much different. He also knows that the humans are working on passing a law that will allow them to kill mutants if they feel threatened; it makes his stomach do flips over how _wrong_ it is, wakes that old and familiar itch of wanting revenge and needing to fight appear on his skin again, but he doesn't start gathering information or tracking down key players. Instead he walks from the pub (where he planned to get spectacularly drunk, but ended up only having one Martini because the last time he got drunk was with Charles, and he can't not remember how much fun that was, or stop the intense feeling of melancholy), down large, well-lit streets until he reaches the hospital. The kids (and it still makes Erik's mouth go dry to think of them that way) are sitting on a bench outside, all with morose expressions and puffy eyes, and Raven looks at him like he killed her favourite puppy (but no, he did something even worse, there's no denying that now, when his half-hearted prayers clearly didn't work). He refuses to look away, although it makes his eyes sting and eventually, she cocks her head a little to the side, in permission or plea, he doesn't know.

 

Either way, he goes inside, asks about Charles Xavier's room in as polite a tone as he can manage, then follows the directions down the hall to room 217b (which is a ridiculous number for a room on the second fucking floor, and where did they fit the rooms before 217b, however many there are), knocking softly on the white, wooden surface, hoping Charles won't wake up if he's resting.

 

“Yes?” he hears, muffled and hoarse. He's not sure what to say, so he just nudges the door open and pokes his head in. “Erik!” Charles says, voice still raw and scratchy, obviously surprised, imperceptibly more relaxed. “I kind of expected you to have left,” he offers in lieu of explanation. Erik feels that ugly beast of anger he wanted to subdue with alcohol stir completely awake again; he wants to believe it's because he's appalled Charles would even consider that to be an option, but he distantly knows that it's actually because it _has_ crossed his mind. He walks into the room, closing the door behind himself, and just kind of hovers awkwardly there, not sure if he should approach Charles, or if that was his cue to leave, half of his focus still on muting out the blood that rushes through his ears as the anger in him slowly simmers down to its normal levels (well, normal for him at least). “I should apologize in advance – the kids tell me my control is a bit slippery in my fingers right now. I blame the drugs,” Charles adds, his voice breaking a little when he says _the kids_. Erik doesn't think the little spark of victorious elation he feels (at not being the only one protective, at not being the only _parent_ between the two of them) is normal.

 

“I—“ he starts, to apologize, or say that it's okay, or something else entirely, it doesn't matter. It all crumbles on his tongue when he looks at Charles' face, his eyes too shiny, nose too red, cheeks too puffy. “What—“ and then he stops again, because apparently his vocal cords are just as fear-paralyzed as the rest of him.

 

“Spinal cord injury,” Charles says, maybe reading Erik's mind or maybe just knowing him well. “Paralyzed from the waist down.”

 

Erik's first instinct, much to his own shock, is to reach out and stroke over Charles' arms, run his fingers through Charles' hair and offer dishonest assurances that everything will be all right. He doesn't. He also doesn't say he's sorry, he doesn't offer pity or apologies, because he knows it's useless – if any of the tormentors from his childhood had ever apologized to him, he wouldn't have cared; and if Charles can and wants to forgive him, he will, but there's nothing Erik can say or do that will make it happen. So, what he does is ask, “Do you want me to leave?” It takes a lot of control and concentration to keep his voice from shaking and to build a mental wall around his feelings and thoughts (he wants to stay, he wants to help, it's the only way he can think of that will redeem him, if only a little) because this is Charles' decision, and he _will_ respect that.

 

“No, I want you to stay,” Charles says firmly, calmly. Erik can't read the tone and Charles doesn't project anything. Not until he quietly adds, “But I want you to stay because of _me_ , not because you want benediction.” That's when a wave of bitterness and hurt hits him, strong enough to break straight through his defences. And there it is, the blaming and the anger and the repulsion that Erik deserves. He swims in it, basks in it, enjoys it. _This_ is what he deserves, not the kids still looking to him for help, not Raven's silent acceptance, not Charles' calm demeanour, _this_.

 

“I did this to you. You can't possibly honestly want me to stay,” Erik says, staring into Charles' eyes defiantly; he refuses to be fooled, rage _must_ be the epicentre of the earthquake that caused the tsunami-sized flood in his mind, and Charles' refusal to show it irks him. The bed Charles is in hums to him, already shaking minutely.

 

Charles lets out a long sigh. “When they told me... I was angry, Erik, I was _so_ angry. I wanted to do unspeakable things to you, I've _never_ been that angry before; I was so angry, I scared myself,” Charles replies, his voice still rough, quiet now. “But I knew you'd be doing a pretty damn good job at anger yourself. So... You don't need to stay if it's forgiveness you want. You have that already,” he finishes, sucking the vast ocean of hurt out of Erik's mind, leaving only warm fondness behind, like debris washed ashore after a storm. Erik doesn't know what to do with it.

 

“You've been crying,” he accuses, at a loss for an appropriate reaction. Charles laughs a short, humourless laugh that chills Erik to the bone.

 

“Yeah, people who've just been told they'll never walk again tend to react emotionally,” he replies, his tone acidic. Erik feels that little pang of satisfaction again (and it's a truly bizarre thing to feel when one has just put the person they care about most in a wheelchair for the rest of their life), since this could be a sign that Charles is realizing how unnatural his reaction is, how wrathful he _should_ be. But then Charles meets his eyes and stares at him (Erik can't fight the feeling that Charles is staring _into_ him, even though he doesn't feel any foreign presence in his mind), his expression open and honest, tinted with pain (both the one dulled by whatever is in Charles' IV drip, and the one that Charles feels acutely in his every individual cell) but still so earnestly fond. “I know how guilty you feel,” he says.

 

Erik sets his jaw in defiance because for once the almighty telepath is wrong; it's _rage_ that burns inside him. And even if the kindling and embers are guilt, it doesn't matter; it's the fire that's important. Charles stares at him for a while before his voice echoes in Erik's mind, _You_ are _forgiven, my friend._ And yeah, those ashes definitely spell remorse now (funny how he's killed so many people already, and this is his first true regret; then again, those monsters deserved what he did to them, it was justice, and Charles is probably the last person deserving of the severe punishment Erik's given him). He looks away, no longer able to see the consequences of his recklessness or stand the kindness he's given. It would be so much easier if Charles were angry, if he yelled and kicked him out. But Charles doesn't. He stays silent, his eyes still warm, still friendly, still on Erik. When Erik feels like he might suffocate in Charles' affection and absolution, or maybe drown in his own regret and blame, he turns around and opens the door.

 

“Will you be back?” Charles asks, so much hope and so little coercion in his voice. Erik chokes on his tongue and walks out without saying that he wasn't even planning on leaving the hospital. _That_ sends a new spark, but that's okay – he's always preferred blazing fire to the vast ocean anyway.

 

*

 

When the doctors tell him that _Mr. Xavier explicitly asked for details of his condition not to be shared with anyone, not even family_ , a pipe bursts in the wall behind him.

 

When Charles signs the discharge against the doctor's advice, the hospital wheelchair moves a full foot to the left without anyone touching it. Charles shoots him a stern look and he walks out before landing them in any trouble. The fancy new automatic door short-circuits as he passes it.

 

*

 

Charles wipes Moira's mind of anything past their initial meetings. Erik thinks this is a good idea from the start – he doesn't like Moira (never really has), but Charles spends days silent and brooding, a perpetual frown on his face. Raven (not in the best mood herself, Erik finds, when she snaps at him for _sleeping too loudly_ even though their rooms are not even in the same wing of the house) makes tea and sits on the patio with him. Erik, feeling as the only responsible adult left, makes the children train physically and practice using their powers daily for at least three hours, but lets them off the hook for the rest of the day.

 

He doesn't say anything to Charles (in fact, he avoids speaking to Charles unless he's spoken to first – he never knows what to say), though, lets him wheel around with his head bowed, biting his bottom lip in thought. Then, several days after it all started with a gentle kiss Charles gave Moira (and Erik refuses to acknowledge how jealous he was at that), Erik walks into the kitchen to get some water and Charles is by the stove, making tea and staring out the window.

 

“Nature is soothing,” Charles says pensively. Erik grunts non-committally in response. He has no idea what spurred this. “I know you approved,” Charles goes on, a complete non sequitur.

 

“What?” Erik asks eloquently. He's not in the mood for Charles' riddles right now; training didn't go well, what with Angel and Sean crashing into each other mid-air and falling (two bruised ribs and a folded wing for Angel, a swollen jaw and a sprained wrist for Sean). Everyone seems distracted these days, Charles' foul mood permeating the entire house and affecting all of its residents.

 

“Of what I did to Moira,” Charles finally elaborates. The water in the kettle boils and Erik takes a teabag out of the cupboard, places it in a mug and pours water over it. Charles remains silent.

 

“It was the best solution,” Erik finally settles on saying, because he truly believes that, but sees that Charles is struggling with the decision (even though Erik is baffled as to why), so he doesn't want to rub salt into his wounds. He hands Charles the mug and Charles mutters a _thank you_. Erik stands next to him, one hip leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest. It's not the most inviting pose (possibly because Charles' dilemma over this has been getting on his nerves lately; he sees absolutely no reason for it), but it doesn't matter much since Charles is not looking at him at all.

 

“For whom?” Charles asks, fingers wrapped around the mug, looking at his tea like it contains the answer he's been searching for.

 

“For everyone,” Erik replies automatically, because he can't imagine having to trust Moira with the lives of everyone in the house and all those Charles intends to bring in the future.

 

“For her too?” Charles presses. Erik is not even disturbed that he never thought about it from that angle. “She'll be ridiculed at work. Her career will regress. Not to mention that all the men she works with will use her as an example of why women shouldn't be allowed to work in the CIA.”

 

“And that's what's bothering you?” Erik asks incredulously. “The feminist movement is something you value more than this school you want to start? You'd risk the lives of all these children for one agent's job?”

 

“No, clearly not,” Charles responds, finally looking at him, anger flashing in his eyes. “Which is why I did what I did. That scarcely makes it right.”

 

Erik finds that confusion is a good fuel for anger. “It was the best option you had!”

 

“It was the best option for _us_ ,” Charles insists, voice calm and controlled, but all the more dangerous for it. “No one's life should be valued above somebody else's.”

 

“You didn't take her _life_ , you took her memories,” Erik argues.

 

“And what are our lives, if not our memories? Who would you be if you'd forgotten Shaw?” Charles' hands grip the mug tighter, his upper lip twitches. His eyes are cold and distant and he's staring at Erik as if he doesn't see him. Erik figures that this is what Charles looks like when he's truly angry. Or helpless. Or regretful. Or insecure. It doesn't matter, it all boils down to rage eventually, Erik knows that best.

 

“I'd still be alive,” he shoots back, seemingly calm, although he's seething on the inside.

 

“You wouldn't be the person you are now,” Charles says quietly. _I wouldn't be like this_ remains unspoken, hanging in the air between them.

 

“So what?” Erik asks, some of the anger spilling out of him in his voice. “Do you want to go back and fix it? Give her back what you took? Put our lives in her hands?”

 

Charles winces. “No, never. She's... She was a friend. But I don't trust her enough. I don't trust her as much as I trust you.”

 

It's Erik's turn to recoil, giving a mental cringe at the words. Trust. After everything, that is what Charles associates with him? He's not sure if he wants to laugh at Charles' naivety or beat some sense into him (he does _not_ want to identify where the warmth in his chest is coming from).

 

“I just think that everyone deserves kindness, that the most severe punishment is always the worst,” Charles continues, like he hasn't just said something appalling.

 

Erik needs to clear his throat before he answers. “So you'd give child molesters, rapists, serial killers 8-15 years instead of life?” he counters.

 

“I wouldn't give them a lethal injection,” is Charles' quick reply.

 

“Some people deserve to die for what they did,” Erik says, not having a better argument. It's true enough, though; people he killed – they all deserved it. Sometimes Erik thinks that maybe he deserved it as well, but he chooses not to dwell on it (although it's been a more constant idea in his mind since he started watching Charles move around in a wheelchair).

 

“Many,” Charles agrees easily. Erik is about to gloat, but Charles cuts him off, “But who decides who they are? And what happens when they make a mistake?”

 

Erik inwardly curses Charles' determination to always be the better man, to always be good and moral. It's one of the most unnerving qualities of his, if also what draws Erik to him so much and what makes Erik value the friendship they had (he carefully thinks of their closeness as something from the past, not wanting to hope in vain that things haven't changed drastically) above all else.

 

“Is it not worth sacrificing one life, to save hundreds? Is one saint's life too high of a price to pay for protecting the world from hundreds of sinners?” he finally asks, not sure if he's conveying perfectly what he means, but seeing understanding in Charles' eyes.

 

Charles takes a large sip of tea and swallows it with just hint of enjoyment showing on his face. Erik can't look away from Charles' long neck, his throat and his Adam's apple as it moves slowly up, then back down. “Who says that there will be one saint and a hundred sinners? What if there's one sinner and a hundred saints?”

 

Erik suspects Charles has had this very discussion in his head already, his answers prepared, his anger obvious but controlled, his frustration veiled. He indulges though, feeling his own anger dissipating as the discussion becomes more philosophical, as Charles makes him think hard for answers. Some of Charles' prodding stings him, especially when it makes him question his previous convictions and the choices based on them, but he pushes through the twinges of frustration and the flashes of fury, if nothing else for, then because this feels like he's as close to Charles as he's ever been.

 

They end up in the study, playing chess, Erik with a glass of gin in hand, Charles resting scotch on one of the armrests of the wheelchair, still arguing. Erik is no longer sure this is about Moira and her memories, because it feels distinctly like Charles is talking about _him_ when he says, “Everyone deserves a chance, everyone deserves forgiveness. Everyone deserves to be treated the best they can be in the given situation.”

 

He has to look away, to hide his warring emotions from Charles (it's an exquisite thing to hear, but it's also something he can't accept, something he never had the luxury to learn), so he plays a hasty move that costs him the entire game. He finds that it doesn't matter at all, not with Charles' words still ringing in his ears when he goes to bed.

 

*

 

Charles grows increasingly comfortable with constantly being in his chair. Erik doubts it will ever really be _pleasant_ or that Charles will ever like it per se, but he doesn't move around awkwardly anymore, doesn't stop to look at his chair with morbid fascination every few hours, it just sort of becomes a part of his everyday life. Erik counts that as progress, as much as it pains him to think of it like that. He himself doesn't hate the chair, or the fact that Charles is in it; he just hates that _he_ put Charles there.

 

Charles, however, seems to be less and less bothered by it every day. He stops moving to the couch when he wants to relax, instead reading in his chair, and he even takes naps in it.

 

Which is why, one evening, Erik finds him asleep in the study, still in his chair, his neck twisted so that his head rests close to his shoulder. It doesn't look very comfortable, so he decides to take Charles to his room. Gingerly, he moves the wheels with his mind, but when Charles stirs, he opts for levitating the wheelchair behind himself as he walks down the hall. After a moment's hesitation at the door (he hasn't been to Charles' room before; it feels like he's imposing, but he hopes Charles will sacrifice a chip of his privacy for uninterrupted sleep), he walks in, floating the chair inside right behind him, and setting it on the floor next to the bed carefully. He takes in the asymmetrically set shelves, neatly dotted with ornate casings, jars filled to the brim with marbles and other odds and ends, various seashells and artfully shaped rocks, dog-eared old books. He resists picking them up and leafing through them to see what they are, instead looking around for Charles' pyjamas (or something that could serve as such), finding that the rest of the room, the part that Charles actually uses, is a total mess. There's a book on the floor, next to the bed (Erik assumes this is what Charles is currently reading) and the alarm clock's cord is ripped from the wall. The night stand drawer is not completely closed (Erik doubts it can be) and the dresser is open because there are clothes hanging off it. Erik shakes his head, amused, digs around the sheets a little and finds a pair of comfortable-looking flannel bottoms and an old T-shirt (it looks like it was once black, but it's pale grey now with the seaming on one shoulder falling apart).

 

Deciding that Charles won't mind, but still with a slight twisting feeling in his stomach, he lifts his friend (he's started thinking of their friendship in the present tense again; there's anxiousness weaved into every such thought, but it still feels more right somehow) from the chair and lays him on the bed, easing him out of his cardigan, shirt and trousers, and into the sleep clothes (presumably). Charles makes a few indistinguishable sounds, moves his arms a little but without force. Erik pulls the covers to his shoulders just as Charles hugs his pillow (Erik placed him on his side, not sure how Charles sleeps now and figuring that if anything, this will be the position Charles will have least trouble changing). Erik smiles, a little stupidly perhaps, but no one's there to see him, and places a hand on the side of Charles' face, unable to stop himself. Charles' skin is warm, the barest hint of stubble tickling Erik's palm. Erik's thumb grazes over Charles' lips; they feel so soft, so smooth, that Erik has to crouch down and kiss them. He doesn't mean for it to last as long as it does, certainly doesn't mean to nuzzle at Charles' cheek or run his lips over Charles' brow or slide his hand to Charles' neck, but it all happens anyway.

 

Charles' eyes open suddenly and Erik pulls back as if scorched. “I—“ he starts. Charles' eyebrows arch, the drowsiness in his eyes clearing surprisingly fast for someone who was asleep only moments ago. Erik swallows down the apology, well aware of how wrongly it can be taken, but then comes up blank on what to replace it with.

 

“ _Now_?” Charles croaks, voice sleep-thick and unusually loud in the otherwise silent room. “ _Now_ you kiss me? _Now_ you choose to show me this, tell me how you feel?” he asks, tone angry, frustrated, bitter (Erik hopes he doesn't imagine the hint of hurt in it, even though it makes him a horrible human being to want more pain to his friend, because it means Charles actually cares). “You couldn't have done this while I could still walk? While I could still...” Charles trails off, waving one hand in the air next to Erik's head. “ _Now_? What took you so long!? What were you— What's your—“ For a second, Erik ponders telling Charles to quiet down, because every word he says gets louder and Erik really, _really_ doesn't need anyone else to know about this, but the anger in Charles' eyes stops him from so much as opening his mouth. Charles seems to be aware of his voice, though, as the next things he says are whispered venomously quietly, “Get out. _Get out._ ”

 

Erik picks himself up from the floor and gets out without a word. He leans back against the door as soon as he closes it, shutting his eyes and wondering if he's finally screwed this up irreversibly.

 

(As it turns out, he hasn't. The next morning, he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee, a warm hand on his shoulder, a gentle kiss to his temple and a pair of tired blue eyes. There's a considerate brush of Charles' mind against his, as soft as the wings of a dove, but highly efficient in getting him to break down the mental wall. Charles doesn't project much, just a vague sense of embarrassment and a strong affection. After that, all it takes is an amiable prod from Charles, any time of the day, and Erik opens up. He forgets to put up the mental barriers in the mornings more and more often. Eventually, he stops bothering. He doubts Charles ever had a defence meant for him.

 

They don't talk about it. Erik hopes they never will – words have never been his forte, and he can't afford to ruin this.)

 

*

 

“Cerebro is finished,” Hank announces one morning. Erik feels the surge of exhilarating joy from Charles (he feels Charles' presence as a constant soothingly warm spot somewhere in his thoughts and feelings; Charles says it's not quite the same for him, but doesn't elaborate on that, just adds he wouldn't trade it for the world). It's a miracle, Erik thinks (not a very pleasant one at that), since Hank only started working on the machine maybe two weeks ago.

 

 _You underestimate him still_ , Charles sends, mildly amused, before telling Hank, “That's brilliant! We'll test it tonight and then we can start really working with it tomorrow. The sooner we start the better.”

 

Erik rolls his eyes and asks, “A word, Charles?” He moves to get up from the table, but Hank beats him to it, muttering _I was going to tweak a few things after breakfast anyway_ . Erik waits for his footsteps to die away before standing and starting on the clean up. Charles helps (significantly, since he can carry a lot of things in his lap). “I don't think you should do it,” Erik says when all the plates are in the sink and all the leftovers are packed in marked plastic containers and placed in the fridge.

 

“Excuse me?” Charles asks, eyebrows shooting up. The needle of frustration in the back of Erik's head tells him Charles knows perfectly well what they're talking about.

 

“It's too soon,” Erik replies, voice raised, the stones for a mental wall gathered.

 

“It's been _months_!” Charles argues and the chagrin grows to mild anger and a lot of annoyance. Erik thinks Charles is trying not to give him too much of it, because it feels subdued and hazy. “I can't put my life on hold, I _won't_ put my life on hold, so I can nurse false hope of recovery!”

 

“Cerebro tires you,” Erik argues. “It did even when it was properly built!”

 

“Properly built?” Charles echoes. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” A strong surge of protectiveness overpowers the anger in Charles' voice as well as the connection he shares with Erik.

 

“I'm just saying, he built it pretty quickly. You don't even know if it works.”

 

“It's called dedication,” Charles bites back, his rage growing, but paling more and more in Erik's mind. “And hence the _test_ run,” he adds, in a way that makes him sound like he's talking to a mentally challenged child.

 

“Don't be condescending,” Erik grits through his teeth.

 

“Don't patronize me!” Charles tells him, cutting the connection off completely. Erik instantly regrets the argument. “This is my dream, Erik, don't take it away from me,” Charles says, voice much quieter and tone much calmer, but Erik's isn't fooled, he knows Charles is still mad. So it comes as no surprise when he warns, “You'd better not try to take it away from me.”

 

Erik huffs indignantly and strides out of the room. The brisk walk around the estate helps him calm down, lets him clear his head enough to identify the true source of his anger (it's fear, and an inane one at that; not fear of their plans being discovered or fear of Charles pushing himself too much, because he knows how strong Charles really is, but fear of _losing_ Charles to his noble goal). He feels stupid and more than a little ashamed, but is entirely unwilling to admit that to anyone (especially Charles, because he refuses to give him the satisfaction of being right, and also maybe possibly a bit because he's still nervous that Charles will think less of him, Charles' insisting that he knows everything already notwithstanding), so he takes a car and drives around aimlessly until he runs out of gas. Then he moves the car with his powers until the dark solidifies around him and he's sure it's past midnight.

 

When he passes the estate gates again, shame at his earlier behaviour colours his cheeks, which in turn makes him roll his eyes at himself. The annoyance quickly turns to the beginnings of rage, when he can't shake off the embarrassment, and really, he needs to learn that while anger may be the easiest emotion for him, it's not the only one (it's a lesson Charles first taught him; he hopes Charles will be the one to make him accept it as well). He reaches out mentally and feels that Charles' mind is open to him. That finally soothes him and makes a weak, tired smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

 

(Charles gives him enough time to change before entering his room with only a quiet knock. His face is only dimly lit by the light from the reading lamp in the farthest corner, but the frown is obvious. However, he doesn't seem angry, nor does he exude that feeling. He looks a little... lost. He opens his mouth twice without speaking and eventually just sends an uncertain sense of apology wrapped in intense shame and sense of contempt at acting like a spoiled child. For a while, Erik is not sure how to react, having expected to be the one apologizing. He battles himself, torn between taking a risk and showing what it was that worried him into his request, and the need to hide some parts of himself, the fright that he's going too far, that he's assuming too much. When Charles turns to leave, disappointment and regret bleeding into Erik's mind, Erik panics and projects full force his concern for their relationship, his utter terror of losing Charles. There are only three seconds for Erik to freak out before Charles rolls the chair toward him, wheels creaking in protest to the speed, and kisses him breathless.)

 

~*~

_In Between_

~*~

 

They never do get around to telling the kids. Charles wants to, but Erik is not as eager. He's never been one to share personal details willingly. And his arguments (that it will be awkward, that there's bound to be someone who won't approve, that it might cause them to lose respect from some of the children) are based on logic and reasoning; Charles is guided by his feelings (he makes it no secret from Erik that he wants to show off, that he doesn't care what others think and that he wishes he could hug and kiss Erik any time he feels like it). One day, while the kids are training and the two of them are arguing in the kitchen, Charles accuses Erik that he's ashamed of their relationship, that he's ashamed of _Charles_. It's a ridiculous idea, but the way Charles hisses it at him makes Erik feel like somebody kicked him in the stomach, hard. He's at a loss for words and fails to respond in time, so Charles takes that as an admission, and leaves, obviously hurt. Erik is left standing in the kitchen, dumbfounded, staring after him and trying to figure out what it is that he _is_ ashamed of now – the fact that he didn't react in time and thus made it worse? Or is it just an extension of that nagging feeling that's been following him around since the first kiss they shared, that voice telling him that he's not worthy of Charles?

 

A few weeks later, Angel walks in on them kissing in the living room and the point is rendered moot. If anyone disapproves, they don't show it. Charles gloats. He starts letting his eyes linger on Erik even when they have company, touches his arm gently to get his attention even when all eyes are on them, takes his hand and kisses his fingers when they're taking a walk outside where anyone could see. It takes Erik a long time to get used to it.

 

For months after everyone already knows about them, whenever they argue, Charles throws unfair punches and calls Erik out on being embarrassed of him. It stings every time. Erik is pretty sure Charles is aware and that that's why he keeps doing it.

 

*

 

Charles starts using Cerebro every evening to find more young mutants. He sends Angel and Sean to talk to them, suggest a special school. They manage to get to a kid or two every week. It's an impressive result, even more so because Charles starts having more and more control over Cerebro with every new use (he tries finding mutants close to where Angel or Sean are, mutants of certain ages or in certain situations; at first it's not working, but Charles is nothing if not a quick study). But it has its price – Charles is constantly tired, exhausted even. After every session, he joins Erik in the study, but he rarely has the presence of mind to play chess anymore; usually he just wheels right next to Erik's armchair, puts his head on Erik's shoulder and holds his hand. Erik enjoys it, he loves the time he spends with Charles no matter what it is that they're doing, but he worries.

 

“You should take an evening off,” Erik suggests one day as Charles is getting ready to leave.

 

“We've barely reached more than 30 kids, Erik, I can't,” Charles replies, spinning around to look at him. “Do you know how many are out there?” he asks, a bright smile coming to his face. Erik doesn't know, Charles cuts him off mentally when he's in Cerebro, insists that it would just give Erik a headache. He refuses to accept that Erik will gladly take any pain if it means Charles will feel better. “We can help them. Save them.”

 

“Not if you exhaust yourself to death in that stupid machine,” Erik says, not looking at Charles, because his smile is always contagious.

 

“I'm fine,” Charles retorts, voice gone colder, firm.

 

“Right,” Erik snorts.

 

“Really? After all that you've seen me do, would it _kill_ you to show some faith in my abilities?” Charles says tartly, and an odd feeling of uselessness seeps into Erik's mind through their connection before Charles closes himself off. Erik's head snaps up, but Charles is already leaving and Erik doesn't have the time to tell him that _how can you think of yourself as useless, don't you see how much you've already done for us all, how much you're still doing_ , doesn't get to echo that _there's so much more to you than you know_. Maybe it's better that way, he's not sure he could do his feelings justice with words.

 

Charles doesn't come to the study that night. Erik dozes off in the armchair and hears the elevator Charles uses instead of stairs ding a lot later than it should. A familiar feeling of anger boils in his stomach, but then he remembers that feeling of being meaningless, and anger forgotten, he starts to choke on the air he breathes. He doesn't go to Charles then, doesn't think he'd be welcome, but swears on his life that he'll fix it somehow.

 

(In the morning, he's intentionally late for breakfast. When he gets there, everyone is already seated, minus Angel and Sean who are somewhere in Kentucky, and they all look at him. There are sleepy _hello_ s and _'morning_ s that Erik ignores, his eyes set on Charles. He was going to say something, but now he's forgotten how to use words, so instead he just moves Charles' wheelchair, turns it to the side so he can kneel in front of it. Charles raises an eyebrow, amused confusion filling Erik's mind from him, but Erik doesn't answer the obvious question. Instead, he rests his hands on Charles' thighs and kisses him until he can feel Charles' warm hands on the sides of his face, kisses him until all that Charles can project is entertainment and fondness and pleasure.)

 

*

 

Charles has always been independent and strong, Erik knows this. It's not a surprise, therefore, that Charles insists on doing everything on his own even now, but it _is_ very peeving. Charles doesn't let anyone help him get dressed in the morning, or put him to bed at night, he hardly ever lets anyone even move the wheelchair for him or bring him things. Erik is reasonably convinced Charles would try to get a book from the topmost shelf on his own if he needed it.

 

It's impractical, what with Charles taking a very long time to get ready for anything (sometimes it takes him more than an hour to get to bed, and Erik can hear him next door, cursing and grunting, but when he offers help, Charles shouts at him to leave), but Charles insists on it. Erik knows Charles doesn't want anyone to treat him as any less capable now that he's paralyzed because Charles' annoyance at people offering help with everyday things (which are no longer easy for him, no matter how much he denies it) always flows through his thoughts as well, and it's always followed by that terrible all-consuming feeling of being helpless, powerless, unnecessary. He finds that he can't resist taking Charles' hand and squeezing it every time he senses that from him.

 

Charles stretches out his hand and knocks his king over. “Congratulations,” he says with a tired smile. “I give up. I'm tired. But it's not like you wouldn't have won otherwise.”

 

Erik gets up and rearranges the pieces before he stands behind Charles, hands on his shoulders. “Do you need help?” he asks, as casually as he can, even though the frustration he feels for Charles' stubbornness grows with each second he spends waiting for the answer he's already learned to expect.

 

“No, I'm fine, thank you,” Charles replies. When he speaks to Erik, there's no anger in him like there is when someone else proffers their assistance, but the answer always remains negative anyway. Erik sighs and starts moving the chair out of the room, keeping one hand between Charles' shoulder blades, flicking the lights with the other before gesturing in the direction the chair is to take. Usually, he leaves Charles at the door to his room, lets Charles carry on fooling himself that he can still do everything the same way he did before, but tonight, he's tired as well, the practice was exhausting and he can't bring himself to pretend any longer.

 

“Why are you so stubborn about this, Charles?” he asks. “You _need_ help. Let me make this easier for you.”

 

Charles rolls his eyes, opens the door and pushes the chair away from Erik. Erik lets him. “I don't need and I especially don't _want_ help. This _is_ hard, and you can't make it easier,” he replies, tone even and controlled, but a vague sense of warning drips through Erik's thoughts.

 

“It takes you an hour, _at least,_ to go to bed. I can hear you moving around, don't try to lie to me.”

 

Charles juts his chin out defensively. “Yes, it does take me an hour. And it will for the rest of my life. In fact, it will probably take me more when I grow older.” There's spite in his tone, but it's resignation that he projects at Erik when he says, “May as well get used to it.”

 

A part of Erik wishes he never started this conversation. Hearing Charles talk about spending the rest of his life like this, and with such surrender, makes his skin crawl. He remembers vividly the feeling of a piece of metal losing momentum in the soft matter of Charles' spinal cord; he shivers and clenches his fists. Help. He can help. He can make it better. He has to. This is Charles, Charles with his bright blue eyes and red lips and kindness and _good,_ this is Charles and he deserves better.

 

“You don't have to do it alone,” Erik says, mindful of how all the metal around him has started vibrating. “You once told me I wasn't alone,” he reminds, remembering the awe he felt at Charles' powers that first night in the water. “You're not either.” Charles wheels into the room and doesn't stop Erik from following, but Erik can sense that Charles is not convinced.

 

“What do you suggest, Erik?” Charles asks. He sounds bitter, but he's muting the mental connection between them so Erik can't be sure. It frightens him when Charles pulls out of his mind, it usually always leads to a terrible fight, so he latches on to the feeling and shapes it into anger instead. Anger's always gotten things done, it still does, and it's more comfortable than being afraid. Charles cuts him off completely when he sees his expression. “Would you like to carry me over the threshold like a princess I'm not? And dress me like a porcelain doll?” Charles' voice is still quiet, but his eyes, too, shine with rage. Erik flexes his fingers. “I'm not a helpless damsel in distress, I can still do things on my own,” Charles hisses. “Oh, or would you like to help me secure my catheter or to clean up after me when I use an enema? Fuck, Erik, I hate you for making me talk about these things!” Charles buries his face in his hands as his resolved, rebellious veneer crumbles.

 

Erik's hands relax, but his heart aches in his chest when he sees Charles defeated, broken. He moves to approach Charles and only then notices that the room is completely wrecked, all the metal in it twisted and misplaced, pipes poking out of the walls. “Shit, I'm sorry for the—“

 

“Fuck that, I don't care about the room, I can fix the room,” Charles mumbles, almost unintelligibly, before switching to thinking _It's_ you _I need, nothing else_ at Erik.

 

Erik kneels in front of him, moves his hands away and kisses his face clear of the salty tears, murmuring “I'll do it, I'll do all of it,” over and over.

 

(They sleep together, on Charles' bed, lying on top of the covers, fully clothed. It's the first time Erik spends the night there, surrounded by broken down walls and scraps of metal where they shouldn't be. Charles' head rests on Erik's chest, his fingers are tangled with Erik's on their upper thighs, Erik's lips don't leave his face. Erik hardly even closes his eyes, reluctant to stop looking over Charles; he moves all the metal bits to where they belong as quietly as he can. Charles is either not sleeping, or he really doesn't wake up.

 

In the morning, Erik undresses them both, carries Charles to the bathroom, cleans him and showers with him. Charles doesn't say a word. Erik doesn't have to ask for permission to stay ever again.)

 

*

 

“You should fuck me,” Charles says matter-of-factly. Erik's hands still where they're tucked under Charles' unbuttoned shirt. He shifts on his knees so that he's face to face with Charles.

 

“Can you...?” he asks uncertainly.

 

“What exactly?” Charles replies, running his fingers down Erik's bare chest.

 

Erik slides his hands down to Charles' hips, squeezes them, then settles them on his thighs. “Can you feel this?”

 

Charles looks down between them. “No,” he simply states. “But _you_ can.”

 

Erik blows a strand of hair out of his face. His hands squeeze tighter; Charles doesn't notice. “Charles, I'm not gonna _rape_ you. I prefer it when my partners also enjoy this,” he says, struggling to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

 

“I'd enjoy it. Just, you know. In other places,” Charles argues, holding Erik's wrists and guiding his hands back up to his chest. “Here, for example.” He leans in and kisses Erik's lips. “It's all _I_ can get. But it's not enough for you. I can give you more.”

 

“I don't need more than this, Charles,” Erik replies, but a sense of disbelief pokes at his thoughts. “I could hurt you,” he adds, ever trying to reason with Charles.

 

Charles huffs. “I'm not a delicate flower, you _can_ do it.” Erik rests his forehead against Charles' and shakes his head. He doesn't want an unresponsive rag doll, he wants _Charles_. “Fine,” Charles concedes reluctantly. “I can still suck you off,” he offers after a moment's thought.

 

“Can we just go to bed tonight?” Erik asks tiredly. Count on Charles not to notice that he's killed the mood.

 

“ _Fine_ ,” Charles snaps. Erik frowns at him until Charles projects a vague sense of inadequacy and _not enough_ at him. Erik takes him back to the room they now share and kisses him to sleep.

 

*

 

Charles sometimes watches them train. Erik can always distantly feel pride and admiration radiating from him when he sees all the things they can do now. Sometimes, like today, there's a thread of envy somewhere in there as well.

 

When Erik walks into their room, Charles is sitting on the bed, back against the headboard and legs straight in front of him. He's staring at his chair set at the foot of the bed.

 

“Charles?” Erik ventures as he changes from his sweaty clothes.

 

“I hate this,” Charles replies quietly.

 

Erik stares at him, worried. Charles' voice is quiet, strained, Charles' hands are folded in his lap neatly. “Hate what?” Erik asks, sitting on the bed. Charles doesn't respond, just sits there, staring ahead, looking so much like a kicked puppy that in the end, Erik has to climb in next to him and hug him.

 

“I hate this chair, and I hate this bed, and I hate these legs, and I...” Charles mumbles, words muffled against Erik's shoulder, but still managing to sound like reading an elegy. Erik hugs him tighter. _I hate being like this, I hate being a burden to you, I hate not being the best you could have,_ Charles sends to him, words drenched in such bone-chilling, deep anguish that Erik shivers. He kisses the top of Charles' head, runs his lips over Charles' temple, strokes his cheek. Charles is not crying. Somehow that makes it even worse.

 

“You're not a burden, shut up, Charles,” he says, lips to Charles' ear. Charles leans into him, closes his eyes. Erik wants to say something to make it better, wants to tell Charles just how important he is, how much he means to Erik, but he doesn't know how. “You're perfect just the way you are,” he just murmurs, because he believes it, and Charles won't laugh, and now is not the time for Erik to be self-conscious anyway. He projects the exact thing he feels for Charles at him. It's more than attraction, stronger than just fondness or affection, it just may be love. Erik decides he doesn't want to name it. Charles melts into him and hugs back, his own warm and grateful feelings flowing into Erik's mind.

 

They don't go to dinner. Charles sleeps in Erik's arms. The next morning, they pretend it never happened.

 

*

 

Erik's fingers tap over Charles' stomach as he sucks a bruise under Charles' jaw. Charles sighs happily and wraps his arms around Erik's torso, pulls Erik's body over himself. “God, you're beautiful like this,” Erik mumbles into Charles' warm neck as Charles makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

 

“Erik. Erik, Erik, Erik,” Charles whispers to him, stroking his hair and face and neck, kissing him urgently, pushing his hands lower, lower.

 

They've never gone so far before. They've been together for more than two years, not that Erik is counting (Charles is; Erik would never admit there's a pocket calender in his wallet with the date of their first kiss marked in it), but sex has always been a delicate matter, something they just don't talk about if they can avoid it. Erik is sure that, based on the severity of Charles' injury and lack of sensation in his legs, sex with Charles that he once fantasized about is no longer a possibility, but he feels like this is something he shouldn't ask. Charles has never offered any information, and Erik will be damned if he pushes such an awkward topic.

 

Most of their physical intimacy consists of kissing and mild necking; Erik is fine with this, but Charles insists on taking it a step further, always wanting to give Erik _more_. Erik knows he's good in bed and he has no doubt about Charles' ability, but this is a far cry from what they're used to, and neither of them actually knows what they're doing (Erik finds that every time they try something new, he feels like it's his first time all over again; in some ways, he supposes it is), so half of Erik's focus is always on not hurting Charles somehow. (This is why it takes him a whole year to let Charles give him a blow job, and even then under very controlled circumstances – Charles perched on the edge of the bed, Erik standing completely still in front of him. Charles keeps huffing and rolling his eyes. It turns out he's damn spectacular at giving head, to a point where Erik's knees buck, his thighs shake and he very nearly falls on top of Charles. Charles honest-to-god laughs at him. He's, remarkably, fine. So Erik concedes the point and relaxes. A little. Charles still rolls his eyes a lot, though.)

 

Erik is mainly confused as to what to do to make Charles feel good. Luckily, Charles is very responsive and has no problem whatsoever telling or showing Erik what he wants. On several occasions, he's asked Erik to fuse their minds so he could feel what Erik feels. Erik agreed to it easily, and found that his own pleasure was magnified by Charles' presence in his head. Charles seems to enjoy this as well, but he never asks for more after Erik collapses on the bed next to him, sweaty and sated. Erik takes this to mean that there's probably no _more_ for Charles. He tries not to be disappointed.

 

“Off,” Charles mumbles against his lips, fingers hooking around the hem of his briefs and pushing them down. Erik takes that as his cue, slides down Charles' body and removes his last piece of clothing. Charles spreads his arms on the bed and doesn't look away from Erik's face. “I want...” he says, trailing off at the end. Erik can't help running his hands gently over Charles' ankles and calves even though he knows Charles can't feel it; he pushes Charles' legs apart so he can kneel between them, bend over and trail kisses from Charles' knees to his hips. Charles' fingers get lost in his hair, tug lightly as Charles send him _I don't know what I want, just do whatever you feel like_. Charles rarely remains coherent at times like these, and he switches from talking to telepathy randomly and seemingly without much thought or decision behind it (Erik is highly amused by this, even as he very carefully does _not_ think of it as _adorable_ ).

 

Erik ghosts his fingers over Charles' thighs, his nails catching on the catheter straps there. Charles looks down at the sound, then turns his head to the side, as if embarrassed. Erik kisses his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. “Charles?” he asks quietly.

 

 _Yes?_ Charles' voice in his mind says.

 

“What's wrong?” Erik whispers, nuzzling at Charles' neck.

 

 _It's... nothing_ . Erik doesn't believe the answer for one second, not with the strong sense of contempt and disgust making him feel sick to his stomach from its intensity, not when he _knows_ it's not coming from him.

 

“Charles,” he warns, “stop it.” There's a vague pinch of frustration on Erik's skin. Charles doesn't look at him, and the aversion doesn't ebb away, but Erik counts it as a win that they're still connected.

 

“Could you, please, just drop it?” Charles suggests, his hands coming to rest on Erik's shoulders and squeezing them. A month ago, Erik would've been too scared to push it; now he knows he can, and that it still won't be enough to make Charles leave him.

 

“No, I can't,” he replies half-lying down, his face still buried in the crook of Charles' neck. He feels Charles take two deep breaths, senses the crumbling of Charles' resolve.

 

Then, finally, Charles sends _It's not supposed to be like this,_ and a bundle of emotions, varying from abhorrence to anger to _guilt_ . Erik just barely resists rolling his eyes.

 

_We've talked about this._

 

Charles pointedly ignores him. _I'm sorry I can't... satisfy your needs. Maybe you should... Maybe you should find someone else._

 

Erik lets out an exasperated sigh, fighting the urge to shake sense into Charles. “Seriously, stop saying these things,” he chastises, poking Charles' ribs a bit too hard. “I'll never get tired of repeating myself on this, but must we really have the same conversation every time?”

 

“Look, I just don't want—“ Erik bites Charles' neck hard enough to elicit a yelp of distress.

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Erik growls. He runs his hands over Charles' chest, sides, stomach, hips and thighs, everywhere he can reach. “You're every bit as perfect as you were two or five or ten years ago.”

 

“I'm not—“

 

“And everything you're not,” Erik interrupts, looking between them emphatically, “is _my_ fault.”

 

“Erik,” Charles sighs, a touch of worry coming from him, “I don't blame you. It was an accident.”

 

“We don't need to sugarcoat it,” Erik replies with a grim smile that he knows Charles can feel in his head as well as on his skin. “I'm a grown man, I can take it. That it was an accident, and that you've forgiven me doesn't make it any less my fault.” Charles doesn't react, which Erik knows is as close to an assent as he's likely to get. They lie in silence for a while (Erik doesn't know if it's minutes or days, he doesn't care), Erik's fingers dancing over Charles' upper arm, Charles playing with his hair, before he says, “If I could, I'd trade places with you. In a heartbeat.”

 

“Don't say that,” Charles replies, but it's mild and fond, and Erik feels warm all over suddenly and he's sure it's not the fact that they're naked in a rather cold room.

 

“I would, you know I would,” he insists, leaning up to kiss Charles' jaw. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, breath-loud, paper-thin. It's nothing, just words, it won't bring Charles' health back and it won't fix anything, but he says it anyway. He wraps it like a gift in all the guilt and remorse, all the _I wish_ and _If only_ , all the desire to help and projects it at Charles. Charles hugs him tighter, like holding a bird that might fly away.

 

“Is that why you're here?” Charles breathes against his forehead; he sounds only a little bit uncertain.

 

Erik looks up at him, stares into his eyes and answers with as much honesty as he has in him, “I'm here because of you.” Charles closes his eyes, leans closer, rubs their temples together.

 

_And this is where I want you to stay._

 

Erik feels that familiar warmth inside him, the feeling that often comes up when he's with Charles. He's still not quite ready to investigate it further, but it feels nice. He kisses Charles gently, slowly, kisses him until Charles stops biting, stops fighting, until his anger and disgust float away somewhere, until Charles is just a soft, warm, bright presence next to him.

 

 _Sleep?_ , Charles suggests, first coherent thought in god only knows how long; Erik finds it exceedingly difficult to keep track of time when he's with Charles. He hums in agreement, sits up to pull the blankets over them. He can't help but take one last look at Charles, naked and sprawled out on the bed. He notices that Charles' cock looks half-hard, but he decides not to bring it up, because it could just be the angle he's looking from (or his wishful thinking). Charles, however, catches him. “Oh, that, yeah. It happens sometimes. It's a purely physical reaction,” he explains. “I can't will it down or something.”

 

“Wouldn't want you to,” Erik shrugs, trying to sound neutral (possibly failing, but Charles doesn't point it out).

 

“Can't will it _up_ either,” Charles says with a wry smile. “I'm afraid I still can't...” He makes a vague gesture with his hand that's probably supposed to be a super-obvious sign for sex according to Charles, but could, really, mean milking cows for all the expressiveness it has.

 

“Charles Xavier, are you trying to be prudish and innocent?” Erik teases. Charles blushes slightly, hides his face behind his hand.

 

“Anyway, I'm afraid I still can't really have sex,” he mumbles. Erik could be imagining it, but Charles looks like he may be smiling. “It'll just... flop back down in a minute or two anyway.” Erik muffles his chuckle at Charles' choice of words in the blanket that he grabs from the foot of the bed and spreads out in his hands. “And then it'll just, sort of, dangle there.” This time, Erik is not fast enough to suppress the laughter that bubbles out of him. He bites his tongue, wondering if it's too soon to laugh about this, but when he turns around (tangled in the comforter now), Charles is smiling at him (a little bit, but it's progress), and Erik suddenly finds himself biting his tongue on something else entirely.

 

(He untangles himself quickly, puts the cover on his shoulders to drag it over them as he lies down, but he can't help stopping midway to kiss Charles' inner thigh and hip, to project _I don't care_ because he doesn't trust himself with his voice at the moment. He may also think that it's the most beautiful cock he's ever seen, even flaccid as it is, with the catheter tube poking out of it. When he settles down next to Charles, scoops him closer and kisses his nose, he realizes he may have projected that part as well, because Charles' cheeks are bright red and his smile is finally reaching his eyes. He can't bring himself to be embarrassed over his girly, emotional, potentially stupid and crude moment.)

 

*

 

When Charles gets back from his daily session with Cerebro, Erik's already waiting for him, standing by the window and looking out, arms crossed over his chest. He spoke to Hank earlier, and found out that the school already has 183 students _so far_ , since Charles just flat out refuses to stop looking. He hears the wheels turning, feels it when Charles moves the all-metal chess set (the one that he bought for Erik as a Christmas present) to the coffee table, but he doesn't move a muscle. He knows Charles will sense his irritation as soon as he recovers a little. And, sure enough, it doesn't take long for Charles' long-suffering sigh to fill the room.

 

“I was wondering when you would find out,” Charles says calmly, a hint of amusement evident in his tone.

 

“183?” Erik asks disbelievingly. “You want to keep _183_ kids in your home and teach them things you're still finding out for yourself?”

 

“An average high school has between 500 and 700 students,” Charles reasons with a mental shrug since Erik still won't look at him.

 

“We're not opening an _average_ school,” Erik replies, drenching the words in acid (he hates it when Charles doesn't tell him these things, hates it even more when Charles alone makes decisions that should be for the two of them to make together) because he wants Charles to remember this, to never do it again. He expects at least a flinch from Charles, but all he gets is a crash of bright colours into his brain, a large _WE_ shining through them. He can't help the small entertained smile that curls his lips and he lets go of some of his irritation; Charles' obvious delight fills every corner of his mind, leaving little room for argument and anger. “At least promise me we won't have 500 students?” he says, only half-jokingly. He wouldn't put it past Charles to enroll a thousand students, if he can reach them before the scheduled first day of school.

 

“I'll stop at 200,” Charles promises, with a smile that Erik can hear in his voice. “It's just... It's difficult. Seeing all of them out there, knowing who they are and what they're feeling, knowing how lost they feel.” The bright colours in Erik's mind go pastel as Charles' sympathy for others like them who are not so lucky to have friends or even a home clouds over both of them. “We can help them. We can save them. I wish I could reach out and save them _all_.”

 

Erik remembers the night when Charles saved _him_ , how he jumped into the freezing ocean with no regard for his own life, just to help. He knows Charles would do that same thing for just about anyone, and it's the most wonderful thing about him, if also the most annoying one. Charles' amusement at his train of thought tints his memories. “You can't save them all,” Erik eventually says.

 

“I know,” Charles replies, resigned, but not defeated. “But I can try.”

 

“Not everyone is worth saving,” Erik muses out loud, as he wonders what would have happened had Charles _not_ jumped in for him. He would have died. Worse, he would have lived and then he would have continued with his earlier life, killing and torturing. He's not sure that he would have tried to save himself if he'd been in Charles' place that night.

 

He doesn't notice Charles has moved until Charles' legs hit the backs of his knees suddenly, which makes him lose his balance and fall into Charles' lap with an undignified sound of surprise. He blushes red with embarrassment at the position he's found himself in (like a freaking _child_ ) and moves to get up immediately, but Charles' strong arms wrap around him tightly and hold him in place. Charles' breath is warm as it curls around his ear, and it smells faintly of bananas, as Charles whispers, “ _You_ are worth saving, Erik Lehnsherr.” Erik wishes he could believe that, but the memory of just why he doesn't feel deserving is even more jarring with this devotion coming from a person he so irrevocably hurt.

 

Charles sends him soothing thoughts and keeps thinking _You_ are _worth it_ until Erik relaxes and leans back into him, not quite believing it, but not dismissing it either.

 

~*~

_Serenity_

~*~

 

They get epically drunk for Christmas, which results in Charles randomly projecting disturbing images of unicorns with flowers for eyes to everyone, and Erik only being able to focus on one thing at a time (which leaves him either mutely enjoying the view of wine-flushed Charles or accidentally attracting cutlery from the kitchen when Charles speaks to him or touches him). It doesn't matter anyway, because nobody remembers it tomorrow. Erik wakes up to the dull pain of his head throbbing against his brain... _No wait, that's not right_ ; his brain throbbing against his head and goes through his morning routine automatically, dressing himself and then taking off Charles' pyjama bottoms and _is that Erik's tie?_ (how the hell did that happen?) and putting a comfortable grey tracksuit on him. Charles is awake and he mumbles all through the process, complaining about hangover and alcohol and the sun and a thousand other things that don't really compute to Erik's addled brain; when Erik places him in his chair, Charles projects gratitude at him, a little fuzzy and warm and wobbly, but Erik likes it that way – he doesn't think words would be a good cure for his headache.

 

Instead he decides to self-medicate with aspirin, coffee and food, so he goes downstairs to the kitchen. The student wing is quiet when he passes it which means that those who didn't go home for the holidays are either sleeping in or in a similar state to his own, in which case he should really admonish them severely for drinking and give them a speech on consequences and decisions and proper behaviour at school, but the idea is gone the very next moment because a) he couldn't string a coherent sentence right now if his life depended on it, b) it would be very hypocritical of him to lecture his students on alcohol when he himself is clearly still under its influence and c) Charles will do a better job of it anyway (when he sobers up).

 

The kitchen is empty as well, and the lack of dirty dishes tells Erik that he's the first one up. Which is pathetic, since it's almost midday already. He starts the coffee machine and checks the fridge for messages from the kids and the students. There are a few breathtaking Christmas cards made by some of their more art-inclined students pinned to the door with magnets, the list of chores and the class schedule, but no new shopping lists and reminders. He rummages through the fridge to find something to eat, ponders making pancakes, but decides it's too complicated, so he grabs a pre-prepared sandwich, unwraps it and bites a huge chunk off.

 

“Caveman,” comes Charles' voice from behind him. He jumps and turns around, shocked to find Charles' wheelchair (with him comfortably slumping in it) levitating right behind him.

 

“What the...?” he croaks. Talking feels like he's banging his head against the wall.

 

“I should be asking you,” Charles replies with an amused smile, his voice quiet and words a little slurred. “My chair doesn't normally fly on its own.”

 

Erik reaches out with his power and only then notices that, yeah, he _is_ holding the chair in place. Weird. He didn't notice that. He lowers the chair to the floor steadily. “I had no idea I was dragging you behind me,” he says. He tries to figure out when he decided this would be a good idea, but thinking feels even worse than talking, so he settles for pouring coffee (for Charles too, because Charles sends him an affirmative mind-nudge when he raises an eyebrow).

 

Charles shakes his head, still smiling, and then opens a drawer, grabs a bottle of aspirin and swallows two of them before throwing them Erik's way. Erik's impressed with himself when he manages a catch.

 

They drink coffee in companionable silence and Erik eats half of his sandwich before he decides he's had enough and offers it to Charles who accepts with a strange look on his face (one that makes him seem torn between puking his guts out at even the prospect of food and devouring anything edible he finds in the house, which is actually a very strange thing to be feeling, Erik muses, noting that his head doesn't hurt so bad anymore, so thinking is an option again).

 

“I wish you'd given me time to pick up my presents before you kidnapped me from our room,” Charles comments between bites.

 

“I'll get them. Where are they?” Erik offers.

 

“On the top shelf in the closet, all the way in the back,” Charles grins. Erik opens his mouth to ask how, but it seems that they are both sober enough for a constant telepathic connection now, because Charles just shows him an image of Raven with legs of a really tall man putting a box wrapped in light blue paper in their closet. “I was going to ask one of the telekinetic students to do it, see if their coordination is getting better, but Raven was closer,” Charles shrugs, running a hand over Erik's thigh as Erik walks past him on the way upstairs.

 

There's something metal in the small box that Charles has prepared for him and Erik has to try hard not to sense how it's shaped. It rattles a little as he takes it out and tucks it under his arm; the new placement makes it even harder for him not to feel around the box, but he manages by focusing on locating his jacket from a few days ago and Charles' Christmas gift in its pocket.

 

It's a pair of rings, one for either of them. Erik is not sure why he made them or even if it's a present he's willing to give, but he's positive it's not the right gift for today. Last Christmas, Charles ordered the all-metal handmade chess set they now use for Erik, and Erik only bought him a pair of fingerless grey gloves (Charles loves them, wears them all the time, but Erik felt like an idiot that morning). After that, Charles suggested introducing a new theme every year, so they decided on small, silly things this Christmas. Erik wanted something he could put on his desk in his classroom (with the students still there) and Charles asked for something he could show off. And while the ring meets the criterion, Erik doesn't want it to be a silly thing.

 

He opens the velvet-wrapped box and stares at the identical pair of metal bands etched with an intricate pattern of vines. He made Charles' by reshaping the Nazi coin he's had since he was just a kid; his is from the bullet he took out of Charles' back. He doesn't know why he needed to take those two things in particular, maybe he wanted to make them into something better, reshape them, change them, like Charles did to him, or maybe he wanted a reminder of what they've been through. Whatever the reason, Erik wants them to _mean_ something. He doesn't know how to offer this to Charles, what to say or even what he wants Charles to think of this, so he closes the box and hides it on his part of the bookshelf, behind some old notebooks. They'll wait for some more opportune time.

 

He takes Charles' present and puts it under the “teachers' tree”; there's a package labelled with _Alex_ in Angel's tiny handwriting and a box that says _Raven_ in Hank's neat script and a bag that has _Sean_ spelled out in glitter (the letters look like Raven's). Erik is glad the kids let Charles and him off the hook for the secret Santa – the glittery letters stare at him ominously as he sets the gift he's carrying under the tree. The floor around the “students' tree” across the room is littered with gifts of various sizes and shapes marked with colourful post-its.

 

“Tell me you didn't cheat,” Charles teases him, wheeling into the living room. Erik has the urge to stick his tongue out like a petulant child. Charles laughs. “And where is my present?” he asks, peeking around Erik to see the tree.

 

Erik makes a split-second decision, walks over to Charles, bends and sucks a hickey into his neck, so angry and large that nobody can miss it. Charles' initial _giggle_ (Erik decides to blame the residual alcohol in his blood) turns into a long moan and by the time Erik's done, Charles is clawing at his back. “There you go, something people will see and know it's from me.”

 

Charles' entertainment shines through his eyes and Erik's mind alike. “Creative,” he says, before pulling Erik in for another kiss.

 

(It turns out that Sean's gift is actually not nightmares for the rest of his life – it's a diving suit and scuba lessons. And earplugs for his students. Sean loves it. Erik opens his gift last, savouring the anticipation and the hum of metal calling to him from the package. Charles is grinning at him as he unwraps and then opens the box. The tiny bits of metal inside may look like leftovers from somebody's totalled car to everyone else, but Erik can easily tell that when assembled properly they'll form a miniature of a satellite dish. Charles asks him if he likes it, as if it's not already crystal clear; not trusting his voice, Erik leans over the armrest of the couch and kisses Charles like his life depends on it. Raven makes a disgusted squeak, Hank coughs uncomfortably and Alex contains his reaction, but Angel and Sean cheer them on.)

 

*

 

The first actually warm day of spring happens to be a Wednesday, and just when everyone gave up on doing anything productive in school and chose to gaze longingly out of the window instead, Charles declared a day off and let everyone out to drink in the sunlight and warmth. The students are already scattered all over the considerable amount of the estate when Charles calls Erik to join him for a walk. Erik gladly stops grading the test from last week (Charles can be very distracting when he puts his mind to it) and thuds down the stairs to join Charles. They don't say anything, Erik only projecting a pulse of contentment and Charles responding with a series of images of his desired route and the feeling of childlike giddiness over the good weather.

 

They head for a little hilltop at the very edge of the forest that seems to be one of Charles' favourite places around the property. Sean and Angel are keeping an eye on some of their flying students; Erik communicates an image of himself and Charles floating around in mid-air, which Charles find exceptionally humorous for some reason. Charles shares his amusement at the general sense of excitement at a free day and a quizzical musing over whether the students really hate their school that much and why. Erik replies with an assurance that they're just being students. All the way to the hill their whole communication consists mainly of shared images and emotions (and Charles occasionally offering some gossip in the form of second-hand projecting of someone's nervous butterflies or gleeful smiles caused by a specific boy or girl reacting or not to a certain prodding question).

 

When they reach the bottom of the hill, Charles grabs Erik's wrist. “I... have a favour to ask of you, my friend,” he says; Erik can feel that he's a little nervous, but determined to see this through. It's been quite a while since Charles has been anxious around him about asking for something and Erik half-heartedly wonders if he's going to have to kill somebody or something equally tedious. “Oh, no, nothing like that.” Charles replies to his thoughts with a chuckle, “but it _is_ rather... unorthodox.” This doesn't really comfort Erik (he'd have no qualm with killing, or anything else destructive for that matter, for Charles), because he's now not sure Charles will even ask for something plausible and doable. “Stop thinking about killing people,” Charles admonishes through a shaky laugh, “it's rather unsettling.” He squeezes his hands into fists, as if physically gathering his courage, then relaxes, reaches out and runs a hand over Erik's thigh. His eyes follow the movement of his hand as he quickly blurts, “I want to run. I want _you_ to run because I'm making you. And I want to feel it.”

 

Erik lets out a sigh of relief and almost laughs. That's easy enough. He nods emphatically, saying, “Yeah, of course, no problem.”

 

“Don't be so quick to decide,” Charles warns, “it's not as simple as it may sound.” Erik raises an eyebrow; it seems simple to him – Charles' mind is as familiar to him as his own (if not more), its presence as quotidian as the sun rising, and they've done this before, Charles bringing them so close they were more one person than two, thinking and feeling what the other was. “This is different,” Charles' words interrupt his mental rant, and he is suddenly so very glad that Charles knows his thoughts because there's no way he could repeat that out loud and still have it make sense. “I want to... I want to control you.”

 

“Oh,” is all Erik manages. “That's... new.” He's not opposed to the idea per se, but he's never really thought about literally giving up control in such a way.

 

“I won't make you,” Charles rushes to say, “if you don't want to, you don't have to. It's just...” Charles looks away, and Erik feels him emanate strong longing before he continues with, “It's the only way I can come up with of ever being able to feel it again.” That's about the moment when Erik mentally slaps himself; he hasn't thought of this before, hasn't considered suggesting this even though (now that Charles has pointed it out) it's a perfectly obvious solution. And Erik trusts Charles quite literally with his life; trusting him with his legs seems inconsequential compared to that.

 

“Yes, of course,” he agrees again as quickly as he finds voice. “Anything.”

 

“I'm told it's rather disturbing, scary even. You'll feel your legs, but you won't be able to control them. It will be much like the way I feel,” Charles explains in what Erik has learned to be his _professor tone_. He's not sure if it's supposed to calm him or Charles.

 

“Can you make me... not feel it? The way you do?” Erik suggests, surprising himself at the request. But he wants it. He wants to know what it's like for Charles, wants to have this in common with him as well, if only for a little while.

 

Charles looks at him quizzically, visibly taken aback by his words. “I could? But... it's not something you _want_ to experience.”

 

“Do it,” Erik commands assertively. He can take this, he can. It will help him understand Charles at least that tiny bit better.

 

“Don't fight it, don't try to move,” Charles tells him, voice steady and unwavering, even as his fingers tremble on Erik's thigh. “The more you fight it, the harder it will be for me to maintain control.”

 

Erik nods quickly before realizing, with a start and a twitch of panic, that he can't feel his feet, he can't feel them squeezed lightly by his shoes, or the ground underneath them. The feeling spreads up his legs, until Charles' hand is only a distant memory, even though Erik can see it _right there_. It's a very strange, if unpleasant, sensation and his body and mind fight it subconsciously. It's almost like floating, only not quite so peaceful. He can feel nothing below his waist, and it's such an unnatural feeling that he almost asks Charles to stop.

 

But then he remembers – _this is what it's like for Charles all the time_. He grits his teeth and decides to bear it, without a word of complaint. He sees his foot move in front of him. It's absolutely bizarre.

 

“Would you like me to stop?” Charles asks, some of the feeling going back to Erik's legs. Erik shakes his head. Charles is all wide-eyed amazement and bubbling joy at even this smallest movement, and Erik would quite literally rather _die_ then take it away from him.

 

(Charles makes him run until he can just barely stand on his feet. When he gets his legs back, they feel like boneless jelly. He falls to the damp ground on the hilltop, Charles' wheelchair neatly parked next to him. Charles places Erik's head on his lap, strokes Erik's hair and murmurs, “Thank you,” with such honesty and delight, that Erik considers suggesting another round. “I never would have asked anyone else for this,” Charles adds, and for a moment Erik expects the part of himself that remains from his past, that keeps hating and raging, to supply how _Of course Charles would only ask him, it's only a just punishment_ or some such, but the thought never comes. Charles replies to him anyway, says, “I'd never dream of sharing this with anyone else.”

 

At length, Erik whispers, “I wish it was me,” half-hoping the wind would carry the words away, but Charles hears.

 

“Don't say that, don't ever say that. I would never wish that for you,” he replies.

 

“Nor I for you,” Erik counters, burying his face into Charles' thigh, kissing it and wishing Charles could feel it; crying and thanking fuck that Charles _can't_ feel it.

 

“I know,” Charles says, kissing the top of his head, warm, gentle, soothing, _loving_. Erik dozes off to the warm breeze and Charles' nimble fingers on his neck.

 

When he wakes up, Charles is already manoeuvring his sleeping body into bed and they're both showered and wearing sleep clothes. Erik doesn't even find it strange not to be able to move his arms and legs. Charles lowers him gently to the mattress, then releases him. Erik curls around Charles' warm body immediately, laying his head on Charles shoulder, whispering, “Thank you.” Charles smiles against his forehead like he knows what he's being thanked for.)

 

*

 

As some boring human talks about... something boring, Erik isn't really listening, Charles mentally rolls his eyes. Erik snickers too loudly and gets a few _looks_ , but the human doesn't stop rambling. Charles appears to be listening, but Erik can feel his growing frustration and impatience. As far as Erik can tell, it's just like any other conference with the human government – boring, tiring and pointless. He doesn't understand why Charles doesn't just take them over and _make_ them sign the damn law instead of participating in this overly polite fake diplomatic meeting.

 

 _Erik_ , Charles admonishes sternly. _I'm already arguing, can you please be on my side? I really don't want to be in a yet another fight right now._

 

 _I just don't understand why you even bother with them_ , Erik replies indignantly. He sends the memory of the news from that afternoon, some nameless politician giving a speech, saying how _doctor Charles Xavier and his friend Erik Lehnsherr will be attending the UN conference in New York tonight. Doctor Xavier and Mr Lehnsherr are the leading activists for mutant rights. Their presence at the meeting tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is a warning to all of us, the soldiers and the civilians alike, that this is war._

 

Anger spikes within Charles at that and the flash of blood-red burns through Erik's mind, but Erik just smiles triumphantly; he's undeniably smug at knowing Charles well enough to trigger such a strong reaction so quickly. Charles seems to be much better at dealing with rage than Erik has ever been, though, for he only sends a faint sense of warning towards Erik and the words, _We're here for peaceful negotiations._

 

 _Boring negotiations more like_ , Erik replies with the feeling of a yawn.

 

 _Can't argue with that_ , Charles agrees with a heavy sigh that only Erik can hear.

 

 _We should leave_ , Erik suggests, a hint of mischief colouring his tone.

 

 _We're not done yet!_ Charles protests, but it's feeble at best.

 

_Oh, and you will be in a few more hours?_

 

Charles sighs audibly and looks around the table full of human politicians. “I'm afraid, gentlemen, I'm tired. Shall we continue tomorrow?” he says, with an imitation of weariness and soreness. There's a general affirmative hum as the next meeting is scheduled for 10 o'clock tomorrow before everyone starts to leave. Erik wheels Charles out into the hall. “The good thing about being an invalid,” Charles says, rubbing his eyes, “is that everyone feels obligated to cater to your every whim.”

 

Erik doesn't manage to catch a stray thought of _There are good sides to it?_ before Charles hears it. He bites his lip and calls the elevator, hoping Charles will let it go.

 

“Of course there are,” Charles says. “For one, I have you.” That catches Erik completely off-guard. He looks at Charles in utter befuddlement and Charles gives him a warm smile before answering, _If I hadn't been shot, would you have stayed? Or would you have gone on with your hatred and revenge, directed it at humans? Would we have ever been together?_

 

Erik feels awe spread through him, from the core of his being to the tips of his fingers and toes – that Charles would deem their relationship worthy of such a sacrifice was beyond him. He's left speechless and he barely even registers the ding of the lift door.

 

“Close your mouth, _darling_ ,” Charles calls after him, wheeling into the elevator. Erik jumps in at the last second, still stunned silent. “You're a terrible influence, Erik,” Charles teases, clearly in an attempt to call Erik back to Earth and lighten the mood, “making me ditch like some schoolboy unprepared for a test.” He laughs, a loud, ringing sound that fills Erik with such a mix of emotions, he feels dizzy.

 

“Shut up,” he says, lightly slapping Charles' shoulder, “you love me.”

 

“Very much,” Charles replies, quick, unthinking, honest, long before Erik's mind even catches up with his mouth and he figures out what he said.

 

(When he comprehends the implication behind his words and Charles' response, it's well past midnight and he's half-asleep with Charles snoring lightly, drooling on his shoulder. He sits up in the bed suddenly, eyes wide and brain working too fast for its drowsy state. Charles grips his forearm firmly, pulls him back down and settles on his chest again. A few minutes later he comments, “You're thinking too loudly, stop. I can't sleep.” Erik tries to close his eyes and count sheep, but he's still racking his brain a while later when Charles huffs and hits his stomach none-too-lightly. “There's nothing to think about, yes, I _did_ mean it. Now sleep, for the love of all that is sacred,” he mumbles, his cheeks heating up a bit. Erik closes his eyes and basks in Charles' words, wants to put them on and wear them like his favourite suit, or maybe like underwear – close to his skin. He thinks that maybe he whispers _you too_ before he falls asleep, but he's too out of it to pay much attention.)

 

*

 

Erik tells himself that he's not carrying around the indigo blue velvety box with Charles' ring and waiting for the right moment to present it _today_ because it's been exactly four years since he first kissed Charles and Charles kicked him out of then-his now-their room. He also tells himself that his own ring, which he tied to a string and hung around his neck that morning as he snuck out of bed to prepare Charles' favourite breakfast, and the singing of the metal in it is not the only thing that gives him courage to grip the little box in his fingers and lift a hand to knock on the door of Charles' classroom.

 

He tells himself, and he knows, deep down, that he's lying. The truth is, as vehemently as he will deny it in front of everyone else, he is every bit as romantic and emotional for Charles, as Charles is for him. The truth is, Charles doesn't blame him, but there's no denying that it was _Erik_ 's mistake that brought them here, and while that has its merits, it was a high price for Charles to pay for such small favours. The truth is, Charles could find this ridiculous and superfluous, oppressive and patronizing, pushy and too traditional. The truth is, Charles could say no.

 

And it mortifies Erik to think about that. He knows he's asking for a lot, but he's willing to give more, he's willing to give _everything_ (ever since Shaw's death, Charles has been his sole purpose in life and fuck it, but he _likes_ it that way) _._ He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he lets himself hope, feeds that hope with Charles' smiles and kisses and touches. He knows it's bordering on impossible, frowned upon, dangerous even, but he can't bring himself to give two shakes of a rat's ass (do rats even shake their asses?) about that.

 

He stops _just_ short of knocking, his knuckles less than an inch from the door, because he can hear voices inside. He lowers his head, frowns at the door, comes closer to hear better. He can feel that the room is not locked, but if Charles even closed the door to his classroom, he must be having a serious conversation with someone. Erik closes his eyes and focuses on listening.

 

“ _Alyssa, you know you can tell me anything,”_ Charles is saying to one of his students. Oh, so that's what this is about. Erik feels distinctly like he should stop eavesdropping. But he's genuinely curious about how Charles will deal with it, far more than about what the actual problem is. _“Is it about your family? Or is someone else from the school bugging you?”_

 

“ _I got my mom's letter last night,”_ comes the quiet response. Erik is familiar with this particular mom and her rigid attitudes towards mutants. He feels his fists clench. _“She asked how long I'd be staying at this school. And... And if...”_ Alyssa sounds very near crying now and Erik feels sorry for her, remembers what it was like to be rejected and told you were a monster and a freak, but at least he had his mother to help him through it. And then when he didn't have his mother, as much as it pains him to admit, Shaw's acceptance pushed him through the hurt (and into rage, but he doesn't focus on that now). It's disappointing to know that things haven't changed much. _“If I could stay here forever, because she doesn't much care for seeing me again,”_ Alyssa finishes, so quietly that Erik only hears her through Charles, her image coloured with Charles' own sympathy for the kid.

 

“ _What did you reply?”_

 

“ _I haven't, I didn't know what to say,”_ Alyssa admits, sounding a little guilty and maybe like she feels stupid for asking this of Charles. Erik knows Charles doesn't mind, though, expects Charles' answer before it comes.

 

“ _You're welcome here for as long as you want,”_ Charles says, at exactly that moment and Erik smiles to himself – he even got the phrasing right.

 

“ _But, Professor, surely— I mean, I can't be your student forever,”_ Alyssa sounds properly terrified of staying in school for the rest of her life, Erik thinks. It makes him chuckle, makes him wonder if he would have shared the same sentiments had he gone to school.

 

“ _Of course not!”_ Charles replies, humorously appalled. _“But did you think Raven, Alex and Hank, Angel, Sean... They were all my students once. And look at them now, teaching all of you. Even Erik— Mr Lehnsherr,”_ he mentally nudges Erik and Erik smiles at it, _“he learned a thing or two from me as well.”_

 

“ _Oh?”_ The girl sounds properly interested now, pacified by Charles' words, and probably much more by the notion that she's not the only to have ever felt this way.

 

“ _Story for some other time,”_ Charles replies. _“Now, why don't you go out with your friends? It's the lunch break now, if I am not mistaken?”_ He's not and he knows it, Erik thinks, because there's anticipation in Charles that cannot be hidden, the sweet thrum of awaiting, of expecting, of _hoping_ for Erik to come. It's humbling and elating simultaneously.

 

As Alyssa walks out, Charles follows her, giving Erik a brilliant smile. Alyssa shyly looks at him, mumbles an apology for keeping Charles. Charles brushes it off as he takes Erik's hand and kisses it; Erik runs his fingers over Charles' neck. Alyssa smiles at them with a fond smile and an optimistic look in her eyes and Erik thinks that maybe they'll inspire in these kids more than just learning about their mutations.

 

“You know, I think that perhaps I was wrong,” Charles says as they watch Alyssa walk away, a new skip to her step now.

 

“About?” Erik prompts.

 

“The perfect point. I think now that it may lie solely in serenity.”

 

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Erik laughs, “I think you were quite right about it being between rage and serenity.”

 

“I'd rather not mix rage with my current setting,” Charles replies, leaning his head to rest against Erik's stomach.

 

“Yes, well, we're not looking for focus right now, are we?” Erik says, his fingers ghosting over Charles' cheek.

 

“What are we looking for?” Charles asks, eyes closed.

 

“I'm not sure,” Erik admits, bending to kiss Charles gently on the lips. “Maybe we've already found it,” he breathes against them and feels Charles smile at that.

 

Erik doesn't give Charles the ring, decides he doesn't want to spoil the moment. He doesn't, however, take his own off either. He doesn't care to discover if it's because he honestly forgets, or because he wants Charles to see it.

 

(Charles doesn't disappoint. That night when they fall into bed and Charles strips him, the heated blue gaze that rakes over his body quickly zeroes in on the new accessory. There's no reaction, though.

 

In the morning, Erik wakes up alone in the bed. It's disconcerting because they've gotten up together for long long months now. He dresses hastily and carelessly, pausing only to check if he's still wearing the ring around his neck. When he all but bursts into the kitchen, Charles is making breakfast in his pyjamas, a new ring glinting on his left ring finger. Erik freezes. “Well, will you wear yours around your neck forever?” Charles asks, flashing him an all-teeth smile. Erik kisses him to hide the tint of his cheeks and the honestly embarrassing amount of rapture in his eyes. Also, he's less likely to make any undignified noises with Charles' tongue shoved down his throat.)

 

*

 

The sun. The sun and whoever the fuck turned it on. That's all Erik can think (curse, actually) as he wakes from a pleasant dream he already doesn't remember. He blinks his eyes open lazily, shields them with a hand. A soft moan comes from right next to his ear and he turns just in time to see Charles stretch.

 

 _Enjoying the view?_ Charles teases, but the words are blurry, Charles' mind sluggish and drowsy. _I've been told that I look much like an angel, bathed in sunlight like this._

 

 _Clearly, whoever told you that didn't know you very well,_ Erik replies with a snort.

 

 _Not the way you do,_ Charles says readily. Erik admires the ease with which Charles seems to share his thoughts, the simplicity of saying the things that Charles feels. It's something he's been trying to learn over the past years, but he feels he's not being a very good student. _Nonsense,_ Charles says, stroking Erik's arm where it rests around his middle. Erik nuzzles his neck, kisses it. Charles almost purrs under him.

 

The dull sense of pain in his lower back startles Erik. It's stronger than the last few times Charles experienced ghost pains, which worries him.

 

“Sorry,” Charles whispers, muting the pain.

 

“No, I don't mind, I've already told you,” Erik retaliates, squeezing his hand between Charles' body and the bed, turning Charles to face him and rubbing his back gently. “It's stronger, isn't it? Than last time?”

 

Charles' head falls to Erik's shoulder, his breath hitching as Erik presses down over his scarred lower back. “Ah, yes. Mornings tend to be... troublesome,” Charles replies with an air of peaceful resignation that still unsettles Erik. “Harder,” Charles says, and for all that he's frowning and doesn't look exactly comfortable, Erik knows more pressure helps.

 

He digs his fingers into the sleep-warm skin, kissing the lines between Charles' brows. “Turn over?” he suggests, and flips Charles over at the agreeable nudge to his thoughts. He runs his fingers over Charles' spine in almost-reverence, stopping right where the white scar tissue begins. He straddles Charles' thighs and hunches over to kiss the scars he helped create.

 

 _Don't think that,_ Charles chastises him. Erik smiles against his skin non-committally, then kisses up his spine, his hands coming back to rest on Charles' hips. He works his thumbs in slow circles up and to the centre of Charles' body, dipping into the small of his back, rubbing over his scars, gently at first, but then with more strength behind it. Charles buries his face further into the pillow that his fingers are white-knuckled from squeezing. Erik eases his ministrations until Charles relaxes, then works him harder again. His fingers go numb after a while, but he doesn't stop, prodding and massaging the affected part of Charles' back until Charles starts moaning under him, his skin damp from sweat and his back arching in pleasure.

 

“Better?” Erik asks, bringing his lips down and running them over the length of Charles' spine again. The position they're in has already done wonders for his morning erection, taking him from mildly interested to fully hard and all but rocking against Charles' legs (once or twice just the very head of his cock slips between Charles' arse cheeks and he shivers all over at the feeling, but doesn't give in to it, pulling back quickly; he's promised himself not to do this).

 

“Much,” Charles breathes when Erik kisses the back of his neck, noses through his hair, nips at his ear. “Face to face, please?” Charles asks, craning his neck to kiss Erik sweetly on the lips. Erik smiles and guides Charles' body around, not breaking the kiss. _Impressive_ , Charles comments, wrapping his arms around Erik's neck and deepening the kiss.

 

Time, Erik has learnt, is a non-existent concept when he's with Charles. (He runs his hands gently over Charles' ribs, tickles lightly; Charles wraps his long fingers loosely around Erik's cock, just settling them there for a second before removing them again.) Sometimes, it feels like time has stood still, waiting for them, and it's only minutes that he's lost even though they feel like years. (Erik rocks his hips into Charles' touch, too brief, too teasing; Charles licks just behind his teeth, making him shudder all over.) Other times, Erik thinks they've had far too little time together, and it turns out that hours have passed. (Erik starts kissing down Charles' chin and neck and chest, licking at his nipples and biting them gently; Charles moans and arches his back up, his now free hand tangling with Erik's hair and pulling carelessly, a bit too harshly, not that Erik minds.)

 

Mornings with Charles are always like this – easy, lazy, warm, heavy. (Erik trails kisses from Charles' shoulder down his extended arm, sucks at the pulse point in his wrist, nuzzles his hand and licks his fingers; Charles rewards him with muffled noises and gentle scratching of his scalp.) Erik likes to wake up with Charles by his side, the bed warm and the covers tangled around them; he's not sure how Charles manages to hog the blankets, but he always does. (Erik kisses up the inside of Charles arm and bites on the most sensitive parts, just to feel Charles shiver under him; Charles combs through Erik's hair, then lays his palm on Erik's neck, presses his fingers around the knobs of Erik's spine gently.) It doesn't really matter because they hardly ever part, even in their sleep; and when mornings come, Charles always has an unguarded, intimate smile for Erik, eyes glazed over with sleep, sleep-heavy fingers to dust mellow touches over Erik's chest. (Erik tickles the sides of Charles' neck with the tips of his fingers, scratches behind his ear, and kisses a path down his chest, flicking his tongue over Charles' perked nipples and delighting in the sounds Charles makes at that; Charles tightens his fingers in Erik's hair, snakes his other arm between them, takes Erik's cock in hand and starts pumping it, movements still uncoordinated from sleep.) Erik loves Charles' affectionate morning self, always enjoys waking up like this – the heated slide of their mouths and bodies, slow and without pressure and rush, the easy, gradual slip from dreams to reality, from sleep to alertness; it's not always the most practical habit, but it _is_ always a pleasure. (Erik captures Charles' lips in a wet, sloppy kiss, rocking into Charles' hand; Charles strokes him slowly and firmly, all expert twists of the wrist and practiced fluctuations in pressure.)

 

When Erik comes, he bites Charles' bottom lip and Charles moans with him through it. It's satisfying in ways more than just a physical release is, and Erik cherishes every second of it, letting Charles kiss his breath away, hold him up and pull a sheet between them to clean them off. The sunlight caresses his eyelids open and he looks down at Charles, who seems to be just as dazed and pleased as Erik feels. Charles smiles at him and pulls him closer, so that Erik lies down completely on top of him.

 

“I'll let you breathe. Soon,” Erik promises, nuzzling and kissing Charles' neck.

 

“You're not going anywhere,” Charles replies, kissing Erik's face all over. Erik laughs at him. “Oh, god, please tell me it's Saturday,” Charles says, suddenly serious. “Because if it's not, we're epically late for our own classes,” he laughs, pointedly looking at the clock by the bed which reads eleven in the morning.

 

“It's Saturday,” Erik replies, stroking Charles' arms and kissing his cheek. It's not, it's actually Thursday, but it's not like the students will complain.

 

“You're insufferable,” Charles teases, nipping at Erik's earlobe, but only pulls him closer.

 

(When Charles nuzzles his hair, stirring him from his half-nap some time later, Erik still feels like he's wrapped in warmth and peace and happiness, and something tells him he has Charles to thank for that. He wants to say something, tell Charles how he feels, but words never did come easily to him. “I love you too,” Charles breathes through a quiet laugh and Erik remembers that, luckily, with Charles, words are not necessary; feelings and thoughts alone are more than enough. He kisses Charles' collarbone and closes his eyes again, hyper aware of Charles' naked body under him, Charles' warm breath on the side of his face, Charles' fingers gently tugging at stray strands of his hair.)

 

*

 

Erik knocks on the door without preamble and pokes his head inside. “The class was over five minutes ago,” he says, smirking. The kids jump from their seats and start packing excitedly.

 

“Really? You won't even let me finish my own class?” Charles shakes his head, at the same time waving Erik inside which makes for an amusing and contradictory image. _Oh, sod off_ , Charles' voice rings out in his ears, fond and not in the least offensive.

 

“Happy birthday, Professor X,” the children sing-song as they leave the classroom, notebooks and bags in their hands.

 

 _Professor X?_ Erik asks incredulously, unable to stop a snort.

 

 _Shut up, it wasn't my idea_ , Charles replies, but his ears are turning red and Erik can tell that while the name wasn't originally his idea, he's definitely the one who brought it back to life. Erik laughs and Charles sends him an image of himself sticking his tongue out, probably finding it too childish to actually do so in front of his students. The picture makes Erik laugh even more, but has him torn between cuddling Charles to his chest and kissing him all the way to the next week, which all ends with Charles' hand firmly grasped in his and a secretive look exchanged between them, which, Erik realizes belatedly, must look utterly besotted. He feels his own ears burning with colour.

 

“Are you taking Professor X somewhere special?” Alyssa asks him with a sweet smile. A girl Erik doesn't teach (Charles quickly informs him that her name is Kate and that she's Alyssa's roommate and best friend) stands by her side, one hand on Alyssa's elbow. Erik thinks there may be more to the _friendship_  than Charles is mentioning.

 

“As a matter of fact, I do have something _very_ special planned,” Erik replies with a sly smirk; Charles goes pink at the tone, but doesn't seem otherwise bothered with the situation.

 

“Oh, awesome!” somebody says.

 

“Yes, we all think Professor X deserves a very nice birthday,” Alyssa's friend, Kate, agrees. Erik is not sure if he wants to laugh at the narrowed-eyes-warning-looks protectiveness displayed by these... well, kids compared to him, or if he wants to be overjoyed at how profoundly Charles seems to have affected their lives by squirming into them. He feels a strong wave of affection from Charles, who looks utterly flattered and maybe a little misty-eyed. Erik runs his hand through Charles' hair, brushing a few insubordinate strands behind Charles' ears.

 

“Well, I got to spend it with you guys, it can't be a bad birthday,” Charles replies, and there's unexpected genuineness in the words that seems to stun the kids silent.

 

“All right, well,” Erik breaks the awkward silence, “off you go, you've had him all day, I do believe it's my turn.” The kids all fumble with their stuff and start to walk out, apologizing for keeping them. As the door shuts behind the last student, Erik laughs loudly. “I was actually joking. I guess they're not used to that.”

 

“You're too harsh on them sometimes,” Charles comments, but it's ruined by the way he turns his face to kiss Erik's wrist.

 

“You're too lenient,” Erik replies readily. “I guess we balance each other pretty well then.” Charles seems to consider this for a moment, as though it's not as obvious to him as it is to Erik, but then he shrugs with an air of acquiescence and pulls Erik down for a kiss.

 

“So, what do you have planned for me today?” he asks, brushing his lips over Erik's and sliding his hands to Erik's hips to pull him closer down.

 

“Actually, not much, I was just showing off,” Erik admits with a self-deprecating smile as he kneels. “I thought maybe you could take a walk,” he suggests, projecting the feeling of Charles controlling his legs. “And we could play chess, and I'd let you win,” he adds, grinning.

 

Charles swats him on the shoulder, “Stop teasing me.” Then he smiles as well, bites at Erik's nose playfully.

 

 _How old are you again?_ Erik jokes.

 

 _Twelve_ , Charles replies, actually sticking his tongue out this time.

 

*

 

“Happy birthday,” Charles whispers in his ear, stroking random patterns over his stomach and chest. Erik hugs him closer and kisses his forehead.

 

“What makes you think it's my birthday today? I told you I don't remember when it is,” he says, which is partially true. He really doesn't have anything more than a foggy memory from his childhood before the war to connect to his birthday. Sure, he could easily find out if he wanted to, but the thing is, he doesn't care. The last birthday he remembers was with his mom; with Shaw, every day was torture, there were no holidays, so Erik learnt not to expect anything spectacular no matter what date it was.

 

 _You have a new life now,_ Charles says, _why not a new tradition? A new birthday?_

 

 _Why today?_ Erik asks, considering Charles' offer. It's not unappealing.

 

 _Today is exactly seven years since we met_ , Charles replies, the memory of that night playing out before Erik's eyes, the feeling of drowning, of failure, and the warmth of Charles' body, the friendliness of his thoughts. Charles supplies his own take on it, the immense concern for Erik's life, the awe he felt at Erik's mind, the fascination with Erik's thoughts and powers. _I thought you could pick a symbolic date_ , Charles adds, smiling against Erik's shoulder.

 

Erik likes the idea. It's somehow more than a birthday, more than just marking a year more in your life, this way it's a celebration of so many things: of meeting Charles, of what he's gained from Charles, a way to signify the day when they met for what it is – the day he really started living.

 

 _Indulge me?_ Charles asks, a sheepish smile adorning his features as he looks up at Erik with pleading eyes. _I've already bought you a present._

 

 _I sometimes honestly wonder if you're any older than your students_ , Erik replies with a smile. Charles kisses his jaw and then untangles himself and sits up.

 

“I'm taking that as a compliment, just so you know,” he says, casting a look at Erik over his shoulder through his lashes, looking downright coy. Erik rolls his eyes (he tries to look properly exasperated; he has a distinct feeling he's failing since there's a smile on his lips that he doesn't remember allowing) but gets up and runs them through their morning routine without complaint.

 

“What would you like for breakfast?” Erik asks as he descends the stairs, Charles levitating behind him.

 

“Breakfast can wait,” Charles answers cheerfully. “Take me outside.”

 

Erik frowns but does as he's asked. The weather is lovely and he's not really hungry anyway. Besides, spending some time with Charles outside is always a welcome way to start the day. Charles mentally guides him to the front of the building and Erik goes willingly, the silence between them pleasant and easy, no need for meaningless chatter to fill it with.

 

“Well,” Charles startles him from his thoughts, stopping at what has become the official entrance to the school. He spins the ring on his left hand with the fingers of his right, a nervous habit that's replaced fidgeting with clothes when he got used to _having_ a ring there. Erik puts a hand on his shoulder, frowning.

 

“Everything all right?” he asks, crouching next to Charles. He notices that Charles' hands are not shaking and he's not swallowing convulsively, which means he's not actually anxious, just excited. Erik takes Charles' hand and cocks his head questioningly. “Charles?”

 

Charles only offers, _I have a gift for you_ , putting his free hand on the side of Erik's face. _It's um. I didn't think you'd want something grand and expensive_ , Charles says, worrying his lower lip before apparently deciding that he thought right and relaxing in posture and tone of thought. Erik smiles, amused and maybe a little giddy – he hasn't gotten a birthday present in, well, decades. _But since it's your first birthday_ , Charles chuckles at the idea, _I wanted it to be special. Something to remember._

 

 _I'm sure we can agree that the fact that my first birthday is this late is both special and memorable in itself_ , Erik suggests with a smile. There are actual butterflies in his chest, multiplying rapidly, like the warm glow of _Charles_ there is the best environment for their reproduction. He decides that maybe living with Charles as a constant part of his mind is influencing him in ways he hasn't noticed. He pushes the thoughts away and labels them with _this is_ not _regression into adolescence._

 

 _Yes, but—_ Charles nudges Erik's chin with his thumb. _Turn around._

 

Next to the large wooden double door (complete with utterly useless but impressive-looking lion head door knockers) there used to be a dark green plaque with golden letters saying _Xavier school for gifted children_. Raven had picked it out in some old store when she'd gone shopping the first weekend after the school opened, and Alex had placed it, adjusting it several times. Now, instead of it, there's a thin stainless steel tablet on the brick wall, blank and gleaming in the sun.

 

“I thought maybe you could finish the job,” Charles says, his hand falling to rest on Erik's shoulder, smile all perfect white teeth and plush red lips.

 

Erik feels for the metal, silky smooth and bright, _pure_. It feels good as he wraps the tendrils of his thoughts around it and sneaks them through it; the steel reverberates at a higher pitch than regular metal and it's a rarely beautiful sound in Erik's ears.

 

Charles leans closer to him, buries his nose in Erik's hair and whispers, his lips just barely touching the shell of Erik's ear, “And you should put your name on it, too.”

 

(When Erik's done, the plaque says _Xavier-Lehnsherr school for gifted children_ in a strong, bold script, but it's edged with a delicate vine pattern, not unlike the one around their fingers. Charles' hand is still on his shoulder, and Charles' breath is still damp on the side of his neck and it feels so... natural, like it finally all fits, like it's finally all _right_. With the idea comes the fear of the other shoe dropping, of everything finally falling apart, because every time Erik thought everything was perfect, his world was rudely yanked from under his feet. But nothing happens. The sun is still shining, the breeze is still whistling through his ears, the manor is still standing and Charles' hand is still a grounding presence on his shoulder.

 

He turns around and kisses a still-smiling-stupidly Charles, breathes _Thank you_ against his lips, maybe says _I love you_ (and the words taste _honest_ , feel like rich chocolate ice-cream on his tongue and he wants to say them again, use them more often). Charles' fingers tighten their grip and the world doesn't fall apart. Maybe everything finally _is_ as it should be.)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this started out as a short story since it's my first one in this fandom. Clearly it got _a little_ out of hand xD Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it ^^


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